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saw sheds, privies, and piles of trash. No one was around, and he slipped into the shadows at the side of a building, sat on the ground, and wondered what to do next.
    I've been in Titusville approximately four hours, and so far I've been robbed, beaten, insulted, and humiliated, he thought dejectedly. I'm supposed to be looking for a job, but instead I got into a fight with a man twice my size, and I could be the hero of the Black Cat Saloon right now, except I didn't have the guts to finish him off.

    He recalled the moment he'd smashed Jethro in the nose. A few more solid punches to the head—that's all it'd require. I've been out of the monastery a week, and already I'm thinking of beating people, Duane thought ruefully. I can't be a very intelligent person, if this is the direction my mind takes.
    For all I know, Jethro's an orphan, too, and something's hurting him inside, just like me. If I were a true Christian, I would've turned the other cheek. Maybe I should go back to the monastery, apologize profusely, take the vows, and become a brother, he speculated.
    He recalled the serenity of the monastery in the clouds, where few people ever visited, and mountain winds whistled through the steeple of their little chapel. His life had been orderly, and he'd studied hard. That's where I belong, not this filthy hellhole, he said to himself.
    He recalled the impression of Jethro's boot squashing his hindquarters, not to mention Jethro's fist crashing into his cranium. What about justice and free will? Duane wondered. Does he have the right to kick me in the ass, just because I'm in his way? I don't kick people in the ass. Somebody had to stop him, and it happened to be me!
    He dropped to the next level of reflection. But he's so much bigger than I, and fighting is wrong in the first place. I've already broken countless commandments, and if I had a few dollars in my pocket, I'd probably wallow in prostitutes like the pig that I am.
    I'm a sinner, he admitted. Just like every other poor fool in the world. I've just had the stuffing beat out of me, and I'm starving to death. I should've had ajob by now, but I've been doing everything wrong.
    He heard the sound of a wagon, and became still in the shadows. The conveyance approached through a far alley, and he could perceive lamplights flickering on its sides. In the moonlight, he saw the same fancy carriage he'd noticed easier, the one belonging to the singer, Vanessa Fontaine. The carriage appeared headed toward the rear of the Round-Up Saloon.
    I guess he's going to drive her home, Duane thought. Maybe I can see her close up. He advanced across the yard, and dropped behind the first trash barrel. The driver appeared to be dozing, but the two horses’ ears perked up at the sound of Duane's muffled footsteps. Their huge luminescent eyes followed his progress around the perimeter of the buildings, until finally he came to a stop behind a stack of firewood near the rear door of the saloon.
    She might not come out for another three hours, Duane told himself, and I'm supposed to be looking for a job. Just as he was about to head for the nearest saloon, he heard a peal of woman's laughter erupt from the depths of the establishment.
    The sound sent a chill up his back, and he wished he had a clean, sweet-smelling woman to kiss. He recalled Vanessa Fontaine on the stage of the saloon, trilling her tale of love. He felt woozy. He rested his head against the firewood, and he took a few deep breaths to clear his mind.
    His eyes fell on a trash barrel, and he thought, I'll bet it's full of steaks that the customers were too drunk to eat. I'll just wash one off in the horse trough and have me a meal. But then his eyes caught movement near the barrel, and his hair stood on end. Creatureswith bright little eyes, plump furry bodies, and long skinny tails, scurried about, nibbling tidbits. Duane lost his appetite immediately.
    The back door of the saloon opened. Duane raised his head above